


Conflate

by onlywordsnow



Category: The Royals (TV 2015)
Genre: F/M, Post Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 05:16:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7702177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlywordsnow/pseuds/onlywordsnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There she goes again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conflate

_4:21pm_

 

The banging on his door sounds too perky, not like anyone he knows. It's far too early for anyone he knows to drop by. He's still too wired from his long night at the club to sleep just yet, and his hours of opportunity to do so are quickly closing in. He ventures to the door, abandoning his cup of tea on the counter, and hoists the door open.

 

Her wildly inappropriate smirk is gracing her face as she looks passed him to get a look into his apartment. She says, "Really? Brooklyn?" in her deft accent. He'd long forgotten the sound of her voice, the desperation to remember over the months since he left London keeping him up too many nights. She slips passed him, her fingers absently tapping on his chest as she does so.

 

"Please, come in," he mutters dryly.

 

He closes the door then and follows her into his apartment. She's touching everything, even the things that don't belong to him. Madilyn is going to be pissed if this ghost from his past gets anything out of place. He couldn't even stop her if he cared enough to.

 

She hangs around the counter where he'd left his mug, fingers sliding over the linoleum on their hunt for his steaming tea. She's always been a nosy one. The tea has always been her favorite flavor, a hint of chamomile and a dash of lavender. Madilyn often teases him endlessly about how particular he is. Old haunts and all.

 

"Jasper," she purrs. His name on her lips peels him open all over again, the wounds that he's been carefully sewing shut splitting bare - the threads damaged beyond repair. She wraps her fingers around his mug handle and lifts it to her lips, drawing a sip out at the speed of a tortoise. She smacks her lips and swallows. She says, "You remembered."

 

"England," he replies dismissively.

 

She continues on her adventure, fingers sliding over spines of books that are too dusty to bother trying to crack open, etching into spaces that he doesn't dare go himself. She's peering into shadows like she's searching for any hidden secrets he never unveiled. He has many secrets he's never told her, ones he was too embarrassed to admit exist, moments he is less than proud to remember. He would tell her if she would listen, he would.

 

He tilts his head, watching her as she unmasks everything she believes to be truths about him. She finds his valuables tucked away on shelves, buried beneath boxes of photos he's never bothered to look in. She says nothing on the discovery, just turns to look at him with those dark eyes he can't seem to forgot.

 

"Why are you here?" He finally asks.

 

She shrugs wantonly, her guise of everything left unsaid between them resting on the tip of her tongue. She turns away from him, wide steps and pointed toes carrying her back to the mug on the counter. His fingers are busying themselves, twisting a watch his grandfather gave him when he was a kid in his hands.

 

"I was visiting O," she says, he always forgets they were friends for a minute, while reaching for the mug again. She's always made herself at home. The world has always belonged to her and she knows it. She takes a longer sip this time. "This is shit."

 

"I'm an American boy," he reminds her.

 

"Americans," she huffs, "No taste at all."

 

"I disagree," he replies.

 

"My mother," she spats.

 

"You," he counters.

 

This silences her for a moment, like he's put the game in check mate. It's been months since he's seen her and she's still the same. She's different, in a way, but she's exactly as his memory would allow her to be.

 

"You know," she starts, wandering towards the window on the other side of the room. She acts like she already knows her way around his 1 bedroom loft. She stops near the pane windows, built floor to ceiling. She's radiant in the sunlight. "It looks like a woman lives here."

 

"Madilyn," he explains.

 

"Madilyn sure is...messy," she comments.

 

He shrugs then, slowly approaching her at that. She knows everything he owns can fit in a duffle bag, that the mess doesn't belong to him on principle. His bare feet pad across the floor, the echo in the silence of the down trodden streets much louder than he had anticipated. A few months younger version of himself would have been stealthier with her.

 

"That's rich coming from you, Princess," he says.

 

"She your girlfriend?"

 

"What do you care?" He asks.

 

She sighs dramatically. She says, "I don't."

 

"Do I detect a hint of jealousy?" He baits.

 

She looks at him with those piercing eyes, her knuckles white from being clenched. She is frustrated. He gives up the baiting as she digs through her purse. She wields a cigarette now. He fumbles in the pocket of his jeans for his lighter, flicking the Bic and watching the flame alight. He moves the flame in sync with her moving the cigarette to her lips, perching the stick there as he holds the flame over the tip of it.

 

She inhales, holds it, and exhales the smoke directly into his face. He blinks slowly. She grins slightly, letting her cigarette hang from her fingers.

 

"Jealousy is for you common people," she mutters, lifting her cigarette to her mouth again.

 

He laughs gently, the noise that tumbles out of his mouth muffled by his cautiousness. He steps closer, reaching for her cigarette and taking it out of her hand. She pouts but hardly protests. He places the stick between his lips. He immediately tastes her tongue, the moisture of where her mouth has been sticking to his lips.

 

He blows the smoke out from between his lips. He says, "She's not my girlfriend. She's my roommate."

 

He gives her the cigarette back, which she takes without hesitation to draw it to her lips for a long drag. She seems to be mulling over the information, taking in the chaotic state of his apartment. He will not redirect her, despite the fact that he wonders curiously what has brought her to his door.

 

"Ta ta, Jasper," she finally says, stubbing out her cigarette on the window sill. She is rude and entitled. She is a princess through and through.

 

He bows his head as she passes him, her fingers brushing over his fleetingly. It feels almost as though she was never there at all. The door closes behind her with a noise echoing like a bomb has gone off.

 

Just the way she likes it.

 

-

 

_11:58pm_

 

The club is bumping, music blasting outside the door every time someone pushes it open. He straightens his back, folding his hands behind himself. Call it habit, if you will. He looks down his nose at the man standing just behind the rope. There is no way he is letting this imbecile enter the premises.

 

An entourage of people split the line in two as a pair of distinct heels interrupt his stoic expression. He purses his lips, squinting in the direction of the noise. He should have known, really, that Princess Eleanor Henstridge would part a line that is extended for 6 blocks so she could take over the front of the line. He knows her well enough to know she has only just begun.

 

The gentleman at the front of the line begrudgingly steps back, and there she stands with her black dress 5 inches above her knees and her heels 3 inches taller. She pops her eyebrow up on her forehead at him, staring him down like he will let her in without any form of acknowledgement. He does not have to bend to her will anymore.

 

"Club's full," he says.

 

“Oh, Jasper the World Traveler,” she replies mockingly, sliding closer to him. Her fingers land on the collar of his shirt and slowly slide down his sternum. He caves only slightly, shifting his gaze directly to her. He can feel her warm breath on his lips. “Can’t you let just one more in?”

 

He casts a glance at his fellow bouncer, the more jovial one, of course, who is watching the exchange with furrowed eyebrows and intense curiosity. He looks back at her again, she’s all bones and bravado, and quirks an eyebrow at her fingers coursing their way around the lapels of his jacket. She’s playing a game; he just can’t tell what the game is.

 

He looks straight ahead then. He says, “You can’t go anywhere without your security detail.”

 

“Worried about me, Jasper from Las Vegas?”

 

She’s playing coy, edging into his space. He wants to kiss her, he would he would he would, but he won’t. He squeezes his hands tighter together behind his back, nails digging into his palms, and clenches his jaw tight. He realizes then what she’s trying to do – she’s trying to shake her detail. He nods softly, her smirk widening across her mouth as she drops her hand lower and lower until her touch is skirting just above the point of no return.

 

“Just one,” he says, lifting his hand and motioning a singular digit to the entourage behind her.

 

He reaches for the rope and lets her in. The music infiltrates his eardrums, the noise carrying on for much longer than usual. He glances over at Roscoe, the other bouncer guarding the door, who juts his head in the direction behind them. He squeezes his lips tightly together, shifting his gaze straight ahead again. The music still beats against the concrete.

 

“Just go,” Roscoe finally says forcefully, “She isn’t gonna wait all night.”

 

He stares ahead and the music slowly drowns out. He releases a breath from deep within the confines of his chest and takes a determined step backwards. He turns sharply on his heel, reaching for the door and tugging it open. He's already lost her in the crowd, his brain flooded with the sound of music.

 

He scans the room for her, the walls literally vibrating coated in neon lights, and finds her with a drink in her hand and a table beneath her feet. There were mere seconds between them entering the club, he can't fathom her ability to work a room. He is still surprised by her, despite knowing for a fact that no one knows her better.

 

He cuts through the dance floor to the plague of people that have circled her. He watches her for a few seconds, popping her hip as she catches his eye. She's smug, like he's fallen prey to her plan.

 

"Let's go," he says, reaching for her wrist.

 

"Jasper Frost," she swans, "you're such a buzzkill."

 

He huffs, wrapping his arms around her legs and sweeping her off of the table. He throws her over his shoulder and whisks her away from the crowd. One of his hands has found the hem of her skirt, tugging it down as far as he can manage so no one else catches a peek. He hates that she has no worry or care, like she's been trying to get his attention with tabloids. Now she's given up the wait and come for him. His wait has ached him to his core, many pieces of him being chipped away until he has no resolve left.

 

"Put me down, you Neanderthal," she screams over the music.

 

"Shut up," he counters.

 

He picks up his stride, carrying her to an exit door labeled emergency use only and busting the door open. He stalks away from the building, his stride larger and larger until he finds his car in an alleyway. He pulls open the passenger side door and dumps her into the vehicle.

 

-

 

_2:56am_

 

He puts the old Vega into park and looks over at her. Her eyes light up like she's gotten away with something. He supposes she has. Again. With his help. Again.

 

He hears her mutter something, but he can't understand her clearly. He attributes it to the blue light from the street lamp above and the way her hair looks perfect in the glow. She looks at him weirdly; he can't quite put his finger on it. He has said very little during their aimless drive around the city.

 

"This is what you wanted, isn't it, Princess?" He finally says.

 

"What?" She says, the t barely present. He's missed her accent and her hair and her eyes and the way they look at him coyly while she sends him mixed signals. He's missed her a great deal.

 

"To ditch your entourage," he clarifies.

 

"Something like that," she replies, stagnant.

 

"They know where I live?" He asks. She shakes her head slyly, like damn she keeps fooling them. She's always had everyone fooled. "They aren't very good at their job."

 

"Nice observation, Jasper the Bouncer," she says.

 

"You don't have to do that," he replies, turning the car off. Her top lip curls upward and her eyebrows furrow over her almond shaped eyes. His mouth suggests a smile that doesn't quite catch. "You can just call me Jasper now. Come on."

 

He gets out of the car and closes the door behind him. He looks behind him and sees that she's still sitting in the car, arms crossed and staring straight ahead. He rolls his eyes and moves around to the other side of the car. Opening the door for her, he tightens his lips and looks away from her. She's always been royalty, he knows that, so he should expect nothing less. She stands and lightly places her hands on his chest. He wants to kiss her then, but he doesn't. He still doesn't even know what she's doing here.

 

"Where are we going?" She asks, quietly. Her voice still carries through the stillness of the night air and it sends tingles down his spine.

 

"Food," he replies, wrapping a hand around her arm and guiding her away from the car.

 

He shuts the door behind her and leads her into a diner. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her face contort in disgust. He pushes her towards an empty booth and waits for her to sit on one side before slipping into the seat beside her. He braces himself for her to push at him, but she doesn’t. He breathes a sigh of relief.

 

“Something troubling you, Just Jasper?” She asks, sickly sweet.

 

“Your mother,” he starts slow, fingertips vibrating against the table top from his nerve endings springing into high gear, “I didn’t want to. She threatened to fire me.”

 

“You have a habit of providing women with pleasure when your ass is on the line,” she replies. She smirks there, like she's trying to lighten the mood. He's never seen her try to lighten the mood before. It's unsettling. “Is that how you found Madilyn?”

 

He can’t help the soft smile spreading across his mouth. He lightly shakes his head, slowly lifting his gaze to hers. She’s leaning her shoulder against the wall, looking at him with inquisitive eyes. He crumbles under her it, the way her long fingers are splayed out on the table top and bracelets knock against the cheap material with every movement.

 

“She’s an old friend,” he says, “Trust me, I’m not her type. Besides, she hasn’t been home for a while.”

 

“What does a while look like to you, Jasper?”

 

“A few days,” he says, “Maybe a week.”

 

She nods her acknowledgement just as a waitress walks up and shoves menus into their faces. She begins looking at the menu, a completely disgusted expression on her face as she reads over all the options. He reaches for her menu, shaking his head when she looks at him. He slides her menu beneath his and gestures a hand in her direction.

 

“We’ll take two hot teas,” he says to the dainty, attitudinal woman tapping her pen on a pad of paper, “Give us eggs over easy, one with sausage and one with bacon, and two orders of hash browns.”

 

The woman quirks an eyebrow as she writes everything down; she says, “That all?”

 

“Salsa,” he replies, immediately shifting his attention away from her. It takes less than 2 seconds before Eleanor is shooing the waitress away, which brings a grin to his mouth. He loves the tactless, bossy side of her most. “You’re gonna hate this food.”

 

“Jasper Frost,” she replies with a scowl, palm digging into his thigh as she pushes at him, “Why did you bring me to this dump if it’s so awful?”

 

He grabs her wrist, holding her hand in place there as he draws his bottom lip between his teeth. He feels desperate to keep her hands on him, his body thriving for her touch after so long of her stringing him along. He wants to know what she needs from him, why she's shown up at his front door and his work after months of telling him to leave her alone.

 

"It's not awful, it's just not what the princess likes," he replies.

 

"What makes you think that you know what the princess likes?" She says, voice low and challenging.

 

"You're here for a reason," he answers, releasing her wrist and letting her pull her hand back to her lap.

 

-

 

_4:49am_

 

"Why are you really here?" He questions, leading her up the stairs to his apartment. She doesn't answer him, but he didn't think she would. She has never been one to answer to anyone. Hell, she barely ever gave him the time of day even when she wanted him to bad she dragged him to the tunnels.

 

"Let me guess. You missed me." He says this like an observation as he comes to a stop in front of his door, keys in his hand. She leans against the wall there, like she's too good for all of this, and she is. They both know it, but here she is anyway. He places his hand against the wall beside her head and leans his hips into hers, feeling daring enough to make physical contact with her. "Nobody else fucks you like I did. You wanted me, you want me, and you came crawling back because you couldn't stand going without me for any longer."

 

She tilts her head slightly, and says, "Hate the sin, not the sinner."

 

“When did you become so religious?” He counters.

 

“God save the King,” she echoes like she’s been chanting it for years. She has, he knows, but he’s never heard her say anything so committed to the monarchy. He guesses a lot of things have changed now that Liam sits on the throne. She shrugs there, her hands pushing at his hips suddenly like she can’t trust herself with him. He smirks in spite of himself. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

 

“When have you ever needed an invitation?”

 

“I’m trying something new,” she replies.

 

He turns away from her, slipping the key into the lock. The metal grinds together as he pulls open the large door. He offers her an exposed palm, extended for her to take. He nods softly when she slides her palm into his, her hand feeling so soft in his. He ushers her towards the couch and returns to the door to close it and lock it behind them. She drops onto the cushion and he peels his jacket off before heading into the kitchen.

 

“Jasper,” she says, quietly.

 

The way she sounds makes him look at her, giving up on his intent to make her a hot cup of tea, and he turns to face her. She’s leaning forward now, elbows pressed against her knees as the pads of her fingers press into her cheeks. She looks so different than the royalty she’s always been. He absently licks his lips, mouth parting as he shoves his hands into his pockets.

 

“Princess,” he finally mutters in response.

 

“You know we can never be together,” she says then, “I’m the Princess and you’re a commoner, you’re just…Jasper.”

 

“What’s good for you is good for the country,” he replies.

 

“I know,” she says, pushing herself off of the couch and step towards him, “That’s why I’ve discussed it with the King and we are in agreement. I’m denouncing the throne.”

 

“You just got your title back,” he reminds her.

 

“My brother will see to it that I still have a few luxuries, of course, but we’ve decided that his ascension to the throne should not keep me from pursuing that which makes me happy,” she clarifies, stepping towards him again.

 

He nods slowly, not quite sure how to respond to her declaration. He shifts his gaze to the floor, worrying at his cheek as he contemplates what exactly she’s trying to say. His heartbeat quickens in his chest, his brain both jumping to the conclusion that maybe she’s announcing that she wants to be with him while trying not to get his hopes up. His brain is struggling to wrap around her words.

 

When he can’t form the words, she graciously fills the silence by saying, “Don’t try to talk me out of it, Jasper. I’ve made up my mind.”

 

He furrows his eyebrows then, her figure seeming to slip into a more girlish mode. The versions of her that he knows best are the self-loathing and desperate versions, and he almost doesn’t know how to respond to a side of her that is so welcoming. He wants her, but he never imagined a scenario in which she would be willing to leave her lifestyle to be with him.

 

“Are you asking me to run away with you?”

 

“Jasper, don’t be naïve,” she replies, “There will be no running in these heels.”

 

“I need you to say it," he says.

 

"Say what?" She asks, breathily.

 

"What you want from me," he clarifies.

 

"I've decided to show myself to you," she replies.

 

"No offense, Princess," he says, pausing to squint as she shifts under his gaze, "But I've seen all of you."

 

“You’re not the only one with secrets,” she replies, “But I do trust that you’ll protect me with that body of yours.”

 

“You know I would do anything you asked me to,” he says. Her hands wrap around the material of his shirt, her fingers tapping against his sternum. He takes in a deep breath, silently praying that she is being sincere and this isn’t just some ploy to get back at him. He expels the breath, looking down at her. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

 

“I think whatever fucked up idea of love either of us have, we both struggle to let the other in and I just want to see the real you. The you my brother likes so much,” she admits.

 

“Eleanor,” he says her name slowly because he’s never said it before. It feels foreign on his lips, like he’s overstepping in some way. He feels unbridled and unsettled, like he’s going to push her to the limit at any given moment. Despite all of that, she grins widely. “I want you to be happy, truly, but you made it clear that you want nothing to do with me.”

 

“I don’t want to sneak around in the shadows with you, Jasper,” she replies, hands pushing up his chest. Her fingers brush over his collarbones and come to rest at his neck. He shivers beneath her touch, not quite sure if he can keep his reaction under control. “Liam is quite fond of you, you know, but that doesn’t mean the people of Great Britain would be particularly supportive of the Princess being with someone who isn’t royalty.”

 

“An American at that,” he supplies.

 

“It’s decided then,” she says, her fingers burning into his neck, “I’ll live here with you.”

 

“That still doesn’t answer the question of why you’re here,” he replies.

 

“Because I love you, you idiot,” she counters with an eye roll.

 

Deep down, she’s still the same girl he fell in love with.

 

-

 

_8:21am_

 

She’s had her hands on everything. Well, nearly everything. She hasn’t touched him since she told him she loves him hours ago and he can feel the ache in his bones. He feels an echo beneath his skin as she wanders around his living space and embeds herself into places that don’t even belong to him. He’s been thinking about how her things won’t fit here between Madilyn’s things.

 

“Eleanor,” he says. She looks over at him from the doorway to the bedroom, seemingly surprised to hear her name from his lips again. He can tell she’s been trying to decipher the code of how he and Madilyn share the space. She slowly eases towards him, to his space on the couch where he’s sitting. “Come sit with me.”

 

She sighs dramatically before dropping beside him on the couch. He lifts his arm, wrapping it around her shoulder and pulling her closer. Her back rests against his chest, her hands circling his forearm as she kicks off her shoes. Her hair, pressing against his jaw, smells like honey and oranges. He thinks it oddly fits her.

 

“You’ll protect me, yes?” She asks then.

 

“Always,” he replies softly. She makes him abandon the cold, hardened version of himself that he’s so nicely secured as a guardian of his heart. He never meant to fall in love with the Princess, yet here he is with her on his couch, alluding to a future he never thought possible. He lightly presses his lips on the crown of her head, resting there as he tries to convince himself that she is drawn to a path she won’t regret. “I can’t afford the life you’re used to, Princess.”

 

“The life I’m used to, Jasper, is not the life I was meant to have,” she replies. Her fingers slip beneath his arm, pushing the weight of his arm off of her chest as she turns beneath him. She looks him with widened eyes, full of a twinkle he didn’t know existed. He knows she is tired – tired of the drugs, the parties, the appearance she has to keep; she just wants to sleep, and if she wants to sleep with him then he is more than willing. “I am meant for more.”

 

“I just don’t want you to regret anything,” he says.

 

“The plan was always to abolish the monarchy,” she replies, “Liam will see it through. He will make sure I have a fresh start before he does and he will follow.”

 

“Ok,” he says with a small nod.

 

Her hands are on his shoulders now, her legs stretched across the cushions of the couch. He leans forward to kiss her, something inside of him compelling him to do so, and he’s pleasantly surprised as she meets him. Her lips are warm on his, feeling soft and smooth as silk. She wraps her hands around his shoulders and squeezes as he reaches for her waist. His hands settle there against her waist. He pulls her towards him. She throws her leg over his lap, knees settling on either side of him.

 

She lowers herself, her ass dipping into the space between his knees. She kisses him harder, lips crushing against his, his lips stinging at the contact. Her teeth tug at his bottom lip, biting down. She releases his lip and metal fills his taste buds. His fingers tap their way to her ass, pushing and pulling at the same time. Her hands slide down his chest, fingers spread against his stomach and begin tugging at the button on his pants.

 

Her fingers slip beneath the waistband of his pants when the door angrily pops open. A thud echoes through the tiny apartment as it slams shut, the sound of heels cutting through the echo. Jasper's hands move quickly to wrap around her wrists.

 

Madilyn tears through the apartment. He pulls Eleanor's hands into his chest, her lips still close to his. He looks up at her as the bedroom door slams shut and he hears the door lock.

 

"Can we go somewhere?" He asks.

 

-

 

_10:33am_

 

He doesn't have much money but he's been fairly successful in the art of exchanging favors since he's returned to the states. That's how he manages to get them a hotel room on the fourth floor of some overpriced place in Upper East Side. He's much too poor for a place like this, but the Princess is worth any favor in the world he could exchange. He leads her down a wide, corridor with a door at the end of it. The numbers 407 are perched on the stock of the door.

 

He pops it open with the key and gestures for her enter before him. She does so and he follows her, shutting the door behind them and waiting as she peruses her way around the room. She's a curious one, loves examining all of the things as she masters the art of discovery. She's brilliant that way.

 

"Is that how you exist in the world, Jasper of mine, by trading favors?" She finally asks as she plops down on the bed.

 

He unfolds his arms and drops the hotel room key on the coffee table about 4 yards away on the other side of the room from her. He meanders in the space between them with a purse of his lips and a waning tilt of the head. She returns the sentiment, her head tilted and challenging him to reply. He sighs defiantly as he stops in front of her, looking down his nose at her.

 

"Get some sleep princess," he instructs, "The paps will have a field day with this soon enough."

 

"I'll sleep when I'm dead," she replies. He sits down beside her. He slips an arm around her back as she leans heavily against him, her head resting on his shoulder. "Show me off to this city of yours."

 

"The moment I do, your detail will be all over us," he says. She nuzzles her forehead into his neck. He smiles softly, going soft now that she's confiding in him implicitly. He expels a heavy breath. He says, "I'm not ready to give you up."

 

"I'm yours," she says.

 

-

 

_12:59pm_

 

He can't sleep. He's afraid to miss a moment with her. She, on the other hand, has been sleeping for the last hour and a half. He's content just watching her. Watching her has always been the most intimate act of their relationship, the most intimate of all things.

 

He looks over at her, his hand following his gaze as he reaches out to brush his fingers through her hair. The disheveled strands wrap around his fingers. She shifts on the mattress beside him. He stills in his movements.

 

Her limber body angles towards his, her fingers reaching to his torso and bunching the material of his t-shirt in her grasp. He stops breathing, hoping that she will settle back in and fall back into her rest. He retracts his hand from her hair, storing his appendage above her head.

 

Her fingers creep further up his torso at the base of his sternum, pulling his shirt up with the movement and exposing his stomach. He looks away from her, hoping to push his arousal from the forefront of his mind. He feels her fingers dip lower, toying with this exposed skin like her delicate fingers are the most ruthless weapons to ever exist. He inhales a deep breath. He catches her wrist so quickly and tightly that she yelps in surprise.

 

His gaze darts in her direction, that playful grin playing on her features, luring tongue sweeping over her lips. He swallows thickly, pushing his hand against her wrist and rolling her onto her back. His torso fuses to hers, the weight of him on top of her, pinning her beneath him and begging her to writhe there. His lips descend upon hers in a rightful claim of ownership.

Her plump lips are parted willfully, expectantly, her tongue fearlessly greeting his with great fervor. He feels her hand push at the pants sticking to his hips, an urgency in the way her fingers slip beneath the waistband of his boxers. Her long, ridged nails scratch there, teasing his skin as her tongue wraps around his. She's ruthless with her kiss, with her touch - does she even know what she's doing to him?

 

He recklessly slips a hand into her hair, tugging at wayward strands. The movement makes her mouth part from his so she can elicit a hearty moan, a pant, a scream that desperately catches in her throat. He's distracted by the exposure of her neck and drops a kiss against her throat. His tongue sweeps over her skin, dipping into the hollows at the base of her throat. He shimmies down her body, planting a kiss between her breasts, at the exposed skin of her stomach between the shirt that's slipped up her torso and the shorts that have slipped down her hips, against her thigh just below the hem of her shorts.

 

His fingers trace every inch of her, from the pads of her fingertips all the way down to her ankle. His lips touch where his fingers do, savoring every last second like this could be the last time. Her hands unbutton her extremely short shorts and push them down her thighs. He helps her, peeling them off of her legs and tossing them to the floor.

 

She leans up, catching him by the waist, fingers grasping for the hem of his shirt, and she tugs on the material. She tosses it in the same direction as her shorts, somewhere off of the edge of the bed, and the clothing drowns in the silence of the room. Her hands run over his torso, tracing the muscles beneath his skin. Her fingers burn against his skin, her nails raking down his sternum until her hands reach the front of his pants. She unbuttons his pants, pushes them passed his hipbones. He inhales a sharp breath, steadying himself.

 

“Fuck me, Jasper Frost,” she begs, fingers pressing into the dip of his skin just inside his pelvic bone, “Just the way I like.”

 

The mere desperation in her voice eats away at him. He swallows thickly, the saliva getting caught in his dry throat. His hands shake as they slip between her breasts, pulling at the buttons of the shirt she’d stolen from his apartment like she was staking her claim on him. His dick aches at the way she touches him, how her fingers are so fucking close to his erection but so far away through his layers over clothing. He pushes up onto his knees, palm of his left hand pressed against her sternum, and pushes his pants over the knobs of his hips with his right hand.

 

She grins wickedly as the bulge in his boxers is freed from the constriction of his tight pants. He leans back onto his calves, his hand smoothing over her stomach at a glacial speed. She arches her back, pressing her stomach further into his hand. He savors every second, sliding his fingers beneath the band of her panties and slipping them down her long legs. She sighs loudly when he plants a kiss on her inner thigh, dragging his tongue to her wet and ready center.

 

She moans, hand landing in his hair, fingers twisting at the ends of the strands. He nips at her swollen clit. A whine touches his ears. He kisses at the top of her slit, promptly running his tongue down the length of it. He licks and sucks until the remnants of her sticks to his face.

 

She pinches his hair between her fingers and peels him up from between her legs. Her toes push at his pants sticking to his thighs, her lips parted eagerly as he closes the space between them. She sweeps her tongue over his bottom lip, capturing his lip between her teeth as she sucks on it until it pulsates. She releases his hair, hands moving to slither into his boxers. Her delicate fingers wrap around his hardened dick, tugging viciously at him. He huffs deep into the bellows of his throat, jerking at his boxers and kicking the remainder of his clothing onto the floor. He kisses her harder, lips beginning to feel bruised beneath hers.

 

The fingers from her free hand dig into his back, tugging him forward. He complies, settling between her legs, hips digging into her thighs. He brushes the head of his dick against her opening, sinking into her deliberately. She breaks her lips away with a loud moan, her sharp intake of breath quickly proceeding.

 

“Jesus Christ, Jasper,” she practically screams.

 

He kisses her throat and pushes his fingers through her hair. He pulls on the thick strands, biting at her stretched throat and sucking on her skin. She groans, nails digging into his shoulders. He rocks against her, driving his hips into hers. She writhes beneath him, her hips swaying to meet his every movement.

 

“I’m gonna come,” she breathes.

 

He peels his mouth from her neck, kissing her jaw carefully. He mutters, “Me too.”

 

“Harder,” she says.

 

She pulls her knees up to his hips and digs her heels into his ass. It thrusts him deeper into her, her angle change giving him better access. He hears the headboard begin to slam against the wall, but he doesn’t stop. He thrusts faster, until she squirms, until she mutters his name so lazily that the sound of wood banging against the wall drowns her out. He grunts as he comes, gliding a hand between them to push his fingers into her bundle of nerves. He flutters his fingers there as he rides out his orgasm. She screams his name loudly, fingernails scratching at his scalp.

 

His skin burns everywhere.

 

-

 

_7:17pm_

 

There's a heavy knock on the door that leaves him breathless. She's been awake for the last hour or so, watching some reality show that is far too dramatic for him to care to follow. She looks at him as he lifts a hand for her to stay. She nods willingly.

 

He pushes himself to his feet and crosses the room to the door. He peels it open to see exactly who he had expected. It's the bodyguards they'd ditched nearly 20 hours before, and they are less than thrilled.

 

"Hand over the Princess," the taller one says, angrily, tiredly, "We need to take her back to her hotel."

 

"She's safe with me," Jasper replies.

 

"Mister Frost," the other one starts, "We don't need some big scandal getting out that the Princess slipped us...again."

 

"You would be in trouble with the King," Jasper threatens, "He would be pleased knowing she's in my safe hands."

 

"Mister Frost, what you've done is reckless," the latter one replies, "We know you just want the Princess to remain as safe as possible."

 

"Jasper," Eleanor says, hand pressing against his spine. He looks over at her and sees her jacket in her hand, a reassuring smile on her face. "I'll be back."

 

"Promise?" He asks.

 

"Promise," she repeats, leaning forward and pressing her lips against his cheek. Her kiss lingers there.

 

He hates it.


End file.
